Case of the Highland House Haunting

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  I looked over at my girlfriend and sighed, “I was just thinking how much time we could’ve saved if Ms. O’Connor would have had a computer.”

  Jillian shrugged, “It’s unthinkable for me and you. However, if you didn’t grow up with one, or else have a need to use one, then there’s no reason to purchase one.”

  “There’s always a reason to need one,” I argued. “Hey, do we know how old this Katherine lady is? I mean, if her aunt lived in the Roaring Twenties and died sometime in the ‘40s, then how old do you think she is? It’s not possible, is it?”

  “She could have been born in the ‘30s,” Jillian informed me. “I have a great aunt who was born in 1929. I still get Christmas cards from her every year. She’s just as spry as she ever was, and she just turned 90.”

  “Incredible,” I breathed.

  “What I wouldn’t give to be able to see what life was like in the ‘20s,” Jillian said, in a wistful tone.

  I shrugged, “We’re talking about being back in the time of gangsters and Prohibition, right?”

  Jillian nodded, “That’s right. Women were expected to conduct themselves primly and properly, and if they didn’t, they were publicly ridiculed. They would bring shame to themselves and their families if they didn’t cover up and behave accordingly.”

  “Then what about Dame Highland?” I asked. “We both saw that picture of her. She didn’t look like she was trying to cover anything up. In fact, quite the opposite. I’d say she was rebelling.”

  Jillian smiled, “I think that was exactly what she was doing. They had a term for girls like that.”

  “Slutty?” I guessed.

  Jillian laughed and smacked my arm.

  “No, of course not. The term is ‘flappers’. Dame Highland was obviously a flapper girl.”

  “A flapper girl? I’ve never heard that term before. So, tell me. What makes someone classify a girl as a flapper?”

  “Flapper girls were known for their proclivity to dance to jazz music. They wore shorter skirts and slinkier outfits, which made it easier for them to dance. Those girls smoked, oftentimes spoke in their own language, and truly lived in the moment.”

  “How do you know so much about this subject?” I asked, perplexed.

  “You’ll find me well versed in many subjects,” Jillian admitted, as she smiled at me. “Once I realized that Highland House’s former owner was more than likely a flapper girl, I took it upon myself to learn everything I could about the period. Zachary, that period of time was fascinating, to say the least. Those girls embraced anything society deemed immoral or dangerous. I believe those young ladies were the first generation of independent American women.”

  “You learn something new every day,” I murmured.

  “Indeed,” Jillian agreed. “Flappers pushed barriers in economic, political, and sexual freedom. The 1920s were known for Prohibition. It… you know what that means, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I nodded. “The US Government bowed to the rising Temperance movement and banned the production, importation, transportation, and sales of all alcoholic beverages.”

  “An apt definition,” Jillian observed.

  “I wrote a book based in that period of American History. I needed to sound like I knew what I was talking about, so I did my research.”

  “Good for you,” Jillian praised. “Now, as I was saying, the 1920s were known for Prohibition. It started in 1920 and was in place up until 1933, with the ratification of the 21st Amendment, which essentially repealed the 18th Amendment.”

  “With you so far,” I said.

  “Good. Now, what many people don’t realize is that women were entering the workforce during this time. Automobile factories sprang into existence, which drove prices down. It afforded young people more mobility.”

  “Okay, spill,” I ordered. “How do you know so much about this subject?”

  “Hey, I read,” Jillian insisted.

  “I do, too,” I argued. “Even with all the research I did for my book, which was set in the 1920s, mind you, I didn’t learn that much.”

  “Maybe you did and you just don’t remember it?” Jillian suggested.

  “My memory isn’t that bad,” I grumped.

  “I’m just teasing you, Zachary. Very well. I’ll be honest. I might have taken a class on the subject in college.”

  “And you remember that much about it?”

  “Don’t you remember all the classes you took while you were in college?” Jillian returned.

  “Not like that, I don’t.”

  Several hours later, we were driving across the Tacoma Narrows strait of the Puget Sound. The Tacoma Narrows Bridge is a pair of suspension bridges which connect the city of Tacoma with the Kitsap Peninsula. The original bridge, I later learned, collapsed four months after it opened to the public, in 1940. The replacement bridge, constructed ten years later, was the same one we were presently on. The addition of the second bridge, to relieve traffic congestion, didn’t happen until 2007.

  “I like this area,” Jillian told me, as we exited the bridge onto the Kitsap Peninsula. “I love the greenery here.”

  “Like Oregon, this place gets lots of rain.”

  “Let me guess. You wrote a book which required you to research the Puget Sound?”

  “Kinda. Several characters in my third book originated from Federal Way, which is about halfway between Tacoma and Seattle. So yeah, I’ve done some research on this area, too.”

  We found the assisted living facility where Katherine O’Connor was living nearly thirty minutes later. The complex was huge, had acres of green grass everywhere, and from the number of elderly seniors sitting on benches, or playing cards on tables, must have been a favorite among retired people. Jillian tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at a ‘Visitor’s Parking’ area on my left.

  “I sure do hope she remembers something that’ll help us,” I said five minutes later, as I set both dogs down on the ground. I handed Watson’s purple leash to Jillian as I wrapped Sherlock’s green one tightly around my hand. We were in another state, and the last thing I wanted to worry about was playing Chase the Corgi over unfamiliar terrain.

  “We can only hope and see. Now, let’s see about checking in and finding out where we can find Katherine.”

  It turns out that assisted living centers absolutely love it when dogs visit their facilities. Why? Because seniors have a tendency to light up and become more interactive when a dog is present. Make it two dogs, who absolutely adored the extra attention, and you’ll quickly become the hit of the facility. We were stopped every ten feet by someone anxious to offer both of the dogs a friendly pat on the head.

  “Can someone tell us where… do you know how we can find section 9? No? Umm, how about you? Could you point us to… okay, I give up. No one is paying attention to us.”

  Jillian offered me a smile.

  “That’s probably because you’re not talking very loud, and just about everyone here is probably wearing a hearing aid.”

  A young man wearing navy blue scrubs suddenly rounded the corner. He was holding several clipboards and was humming merrily to himself. Deciding this was our best chance of finding Ms. O’Connor’s room, I held up a hand as I stepped out in front of the guy.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “I certainly hope so. We’re looking for room #131. We were told it was in section 9. Are we close?”

  “Room #131?” the orderly slowly repeated. “That’s Ms. O’Connor’s room. Can I ask you what this is in regards to?” The young man’s gaze dropped to the ground and he spotted Sherlock and Watson. “Oh! Have you come to cheer up Ms. O’Connor? She’s been depressed these last few weeks. I had long ago given up hope that she’d have any more visitors before she passes.”

  “Has her health been deteriorating?” Jillian worriedly asked.

  The orderly shrugged, “It certainly looks that way. Although, I’d like to say for the record, once the patient ‘gives up’, so to speak, then I d
on’t think they’ll be around too much longer. As for Ms. O’Connor, I think she’s lost her will to live.”

  “That’s sad,” I observed.

  “Are you friends or family?” the orderly asked.

  “Friends,” Jillian answered.

  The orderly nodded, “Good. Very well, you’ll find her down at the end of that hallway. It’ll be the last door on the left.”

  “Ms. O’Connor?” Jillian quietly asked, after we knocked on the open door a few times, but didn’t hear any response. “Are you here?”

  I was about ready to poke my head into the room when I heard Sherlock whine. I had just looked down at him, anxious to keep him quiet, when I made the mistake of passing his leash from one hand to the other. Sure enough, Sherlock was waiting.

  “Hey! What are you doing?” I angrily hissed at Sherlock, as he went trotting into the room. “Get back here!”

  If I didn’t know any better, then I’d say that little booger strutted into the room. The inquisitive corgi quickly located the room’s occupant (she was asleep in her rocking chair) and reared up so he could put his two stumpy front legs on her lap. This, of course, immediately woke her up.

  “My, my. What have we here?”

  Sherlock whined and yipped exasperatingly, as though he was trying to say no one naps without his permission.

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. O’Connor,” I began, as I hurried into the room and snatched the fallen leash off the ground. “Sherlock got away from me. I hope he didn’t disturb you.”

  “Oh, balderdash,” the old woman responded, as she dismissed my concerns. She laid a frail, wrinkled hand on Sherlock’s head and gave the corgi a surprisingly thorough scratching behind his ears. The room’s occupant finally looked up at me and she smiled. “Am I to assume this cute little furball is yours?”

  Watson yipped excitedly from her position by Jillian’s side.

  “And what’s this? There’s a second one! Well, come here, you adorable fluffball. I’d like to say hello to you, too.”

  Watson practically flung herself away from Jillian’s side and rushed into the room. She slid to a stop several feet from Katherine’s rocker and wriggled with delight. Within moments, both corgis were jostling about as each competed with the other to get as much attention from the stranger as possible.

  “Would you two behave yourself?” I scolded, as I leaned down to pick up Watson’s leash. “Man alive, you’d think I kept them kenneled all day and never gave them any attention whatsoever.”

  Katherine’s eyes returned to mine.

  “And who might you be, young man?”

  I held out a hand. After a few moments, Katherine placed her frail hand in mine.

  “Katherine O’Connor? I’m Zachary Anderson. This is Jillian Cooper. Sherlock is on your right, and Watson is on your left. I hope you don’t mind, but we’d like to know if we can sit with you for a bit and ask you some questions about a relative of yours.”

  “Stories? You’d like to sit with me and listen to my stories? Heavens above, it’s what I do best. Pull up a chair, both of you.”

  Bemused, I retrieved two chairs from the other side of the room and positioned them close to Katherine’s chair.

  “What would you like me to tell you?” Katherine began, as she looked first at me, and then at Jillian.

  “You’re not what I expected,” I began.

  Katherine’s sharp eyes focused on mine.

  “You were expecting, what, a dull, glazed over expression to be on my face? Maybe have a lap full of knitting?”

  I grinned sheepishly and shrugged.

  “Well, you’re only half right,” the elderly senior admitted, with a chuckle. “My knitting is over there, on the bed. I can only knit for so long each day before I become tempted to gouge my eyes out with my needles.”

  I couldn’t help it. I snorted with laughter. Yep, complete with porcine sound effects. Katherine’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “Pardon me, dear. I guess that wasn’t too grandmotherly of me, was it?”

  “My grandmother never sounded like that,” I chortled. “You certainly don’t sound like a, uh, er…”

  “Like what?” Katherine innocently asked. “An old fart? A decrepit geezer?”

  I heard a titter of laughter from Jillian. She was trying her hardest not to laugh, too, and was having just as much success as I was. I grinned at the elderly woman. I liked her!

  “It’s okay, dear. When you reach my age, about the only thing left that still works worth a damn is my mind. You say you want to ask me about a relative? I have none left, I’m afraid. Therefore, you either have the wrong person, or else you want to talk about someone who has passed?”

  I nodded, “I’m sorry to say that this person did die a long time ago.”

  Katherine’s face fell.

  “Oh, dear. Just when I was beginning to like the two of you.”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, confused.

  “Young man, you’re here for one reason, and one reason only. You want to know about Aunt Hilda, don’t you?”

  I shook my head, “Aunt Hilda? Never heard of her. I, er, we were hoping to talk to you about Dame Highland.”

  Katherine looked over at Jillian and gave her a bewildered look. Jillian smiled, placed a hand over Katherine’s, and then placed her other hand over mine.

  “Zachary, she is talking about Dame Highland. Hilda was her first name.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “I should have known you two would be asking about her. Everyone has, at some point in time.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “Young man, don’t take me for a fool. You’re looking for my late aunt’s jewelry. Don’t deny it.”

  “Believe it or not, I’m not,” I insisted.

  “I just purchased Highland House,” Jillian said, drawing a gasp from the old woman. “I’m not interested in her jewelry, either. What I am interested in is trying to get the house fully restored. Now, there seems to be some debate on whether or not the house is cursed…”

  “…or haunted,” I added.

  “Several of the workers I’ve hired to do the renovation have become injured. One has even died.”

  “And you want to know whether or not Aunt Hilda is responsible?” Katherine incredulously asked. “Dear, I may be old, but I’m not senile. I do not believe in ghosts.”

  Jillian smiled, “Good for you. I don’t, either. Now, the only thing I’m interested in is turning your aunt’s house into a bed and breakfast.”

  “And the fact that hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry are rumored to be hidden somewhere in that house means nothing to you?”

  Jillian and I stared at each other. I’m sure my mouth fell open. Hundreds of thousands of dollars? Was she referring to the big jewel from the photo?

  “I know this is going to be hard to believe,” I slowly began, “but neither of us are interested in any old jewelry. She only wants to restore the house, and I only want what’s best for her.”

  Jillian slipped her hand into mine.

  “That’s sweet. Thank you, Zachary.”

  I felt a flush forming.

  “I do find that hard to believe,” the elderly woman admitted. “I don’t think you realize how many have searched for her missing jewelry over the years.”

  “Was her collection that extensive or did she only have a few pieces that were worth that much money?” I asked.

  Katherine winked at me, “Both.”

  “How did she make her money?” Jillian suddenly asked. “Back then, it would have taken a lot of money to have a house like hers, cars, clothes, and a collection of jewelry as extensive as you say, wouldn’t it?”

  Katherine pointed at a nearby bookcase.

  “Would you be a dear and hand me that photo album? The blue one that’s thicker than the others?”

  I spotted the requested album and gingerly pulled it off its shelf. It was thick, all right. It was crammed full of pho
tos, newspaper clippings, and so on. I gently handed the book to Dame Hilda Highland’s descendent.

  “Would you stop treating me as though I’m made of lace?” Katherine demanded, as she plopped the album down on her lap. “Mercy, have you never met someone as old as I am before?”

  “Er, how old are you?” I tentatively asked.

  “Zachary!” Jillian quietly hissed. “You never ask a woman her age. Ever!”

  “It’s okay, dear,” Katherine assured Jillian. The elderly woman turned back to me. “I’m 93. In 7 years, then you can make a fuss. Provided I’m still around, of course.”

  “I’m sure you will be,” I assured her. “In fact, Jillian and I would love to attend your 100th birthday party, provided we’re invited.”

  Katherine looked down at the dogs, “Of course you’re invited, dear. And so are your dogs. Now, let me get to answering your lovely wife’s question.”

  “Oh, we’re not married,” I said.

  Katherine looked first at me, then at Jillian. Within moments, she was nodding thoughtfully.

  “What?” I asked. “What’s that look for?”

  “You may not be married yet, young Zachary, but you will be when you come back.”

  Surprised, I turned to Jillian, who smiled warmly at me.

  “You two will make a fine couple.” Katherine opened the album and carefully flipped a few pages. “Ah, here we are. Do you see this? This is one of the earliest photographs I have of Aunt Hilda.”

  “She was very beautiful,” Jillian observed. “What was she here, 12?”

  “Let’s see. That’s my grandfather there, and he passed away before my mother finished school, and do you see the dog? That’s Benny. I could never forget him. If Benny was still alive, then that means Hilda was 13 or 14. Now, the reason I’m showing you this picture is to bring your attention to this. Do you see what’s hanging on the wall behind Hilda?”

  “Looks like a painting,” Jillian decided.

  “That’s right. I later learned that particular painting was an actual Monet. The paintings were always changing in that house.”

  “Pardon me for asking,” Jillian quietly began, “but were the paintings stolen?”

  Katherine nodded, “I believe so. My grandparents were wealthy, but I don’t think they earned their money honestly. Oh, here’s the picture I wanted you to see. What would you say to this, Mr. Anderson?”